


Satine, Oh Satine

by Rachby



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachby/pseuds/Rachby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a piece about Satine falling in love with Christian. Wrote it a long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satine, Oh Satine

My name does not matter; nothing matters except for him. I don’t even know him. I haven’t even spoken to him. But… His gaze is warm on me, searing through me like torpedoes or silver bullets. I just want him to see me. Not look at me- see me. It’s as if that’s what I live for. 

When a man looks at me and flourishes in my radiance, I take him to my room… But in ensuing passion, when I am entangled in that haughty man, he does float into mind and captivate my loins entirely. I want to test him. I want to take him to the limits and then slowly… bring… him… back… down. 

But does he want me? Does he want a deflating balloon of a hussy that coughs up her insides after tasting clouds? Does he want a girl with a nasty disease? Does he want a dirty courtesan?

Oh how I hate that title. I hate it, but then at the same time… I devour it. What am I doing with such a beautiful name, like a feverous dancer of sheets, when I do such unruly acts? Each night I am tested. Each and every night that I give it up to another seeking male, wanting a little sexual zeal in his life; I am hardened. I gain experience and moves… But never is this emergent love I feel muffled. It just prolongs this infernal journey of unfurnished pining. 

When the men leave me on the bed, with the stained sheets tangled around my legs and chest, and the beading sweat slowly pooling in the valleys above my clavicles, I watch them close the door. I wonder why it is that I can give it up so many times and still have enough to keep… giving up; passing out like candy into grubby little children’s hands. Why can they not, simply, give some of it back? Do they wish to suck me dry? Drain me like the Nile during the time of thickest harvest? 

But most of all… Most prominent in this series of wants and desires… Is… Would he give some back? 

XXX

The moon is a waxing crescent tonight, with a smile of blackness all along its left side. And it’s bright, emitting some immortal glow that seems to illuminate the entire courtyard of the Moulin Rouge. “Red Windmill”, that means, for in the middle of the ventral anterior is just that- a titanic X of wood and steel and lights, in a fixed position, bearing the name. I’ve been up there before, on the roof, just behind the axel, where the night sky seems so near, and the ground so far away. I used to go up there constantly before I inherited the Elephant; my home. My domicile… My bawdy-room. 

As of now, I am standing on the roof of my Elephant, one hand on the right ear, where the gold paint has been worn away by touch, by so many women’s hands holding on. This used to be a place for wealthy patrons to fulfill their needs. But that tradition is long been washed away… By rain, by snow… By hail. By time. Now I only ascend the stairs when I am alone, without a guest, and watch him, from across the street, on my gaudy monster-house, through his window.

He’s a writer but I don’t know what he writes. He might transcribe, or, for all I know, he may just punch in the keys out of boredom. Still, there he is, every night, sitting by the window in his simple brown tunic-shirt, just… Typing. He has beautiful hands, as I’ve seen, and they are as pale as Proxima Centari, as pale as special Swiss cheeses from rich men, and lily blossoms newly opened in the middle of a stagnant lake. I imagine how they would feel caressing me. 

Some say he is… bohemian. An odd word, bohemian, sometimes mistaken as a resident of Bohemia, or a rarely spoken Czechoslovakian language. And instead, no, it is not that vocabulary, but instead a strangely allotted term used to describe those that live free. A word that also defines me, who is the complete opposite of this; a woman that is forever bound and chained by her job; a woman that is guaranteed a taste of the waters of trepidation if ever she take a step outside her role.

That is why I love him. And, yes, I love him. I’ve grown to love him as I’ve watched him, and now I love him entirely, in my soul, where everything seems deep and insistent. I love his silhouette, one of the only things I know of him for sure, like I love darkness, as it creeps through my windows, preparing to lift me and carry me away, to a place of exhaustion. Exhaustion I earned wrongly. Exhaustion I earned in a sinful way. And for that sin, every night I pay, as I stand atop my home and watch him… want him… Crave him. A craving that is not returned… A craving that is only greeted by indifference… For he does not know of my existence, or more, my love…

XXX

There is a knock at the door, just now, and it startles me so. I turn and look down, through the hole in the floor, where the stairs wait to be descended. I don’t want to go downstairs. I don’t want to abandon my punishment. I think- Ha! Punishment! Since when has it brought me pleasure? 

The knock is persistent; it comes again, to my dismay, louder and more obvious. I sigh, muttering, “Please let it be Ziddler.” As I lift my skirts and go carefully down each step and across the shag carpet of my room, I pray that it is.

The brass doorknob sometimes sticks, which means I just have to pull at it until it comes unstuck. Ziddler usually laughs at this and says “We’ll have to get that fixed, won’t we Pumpkin?” Tonight I yank once and it comes undone. Indeed, it is who I’d hope to be at the door.

“Good evening, Satine,” he says, tipping his hat, like the gentlemen that he truly is. “How’s my little Butter-Cup?” I give him a flirting smile, and he chuckles, his cheeks rosy and replies “Ah! As feisty as ever!”

I step aside and he walks in, returning his hat to his head of thinning orange hair. Harold Ziddler is a rather chubby man, with exaggerated features, and one hell of a moustache. Often one can find him twisting it while he ponders, or pulling at it as he decides. And, boy is Ziddler commercial; the walking fair-ride advertisement. 

But, he is still, despite of his hyperbolic gestures and inept movements- my father. Well, as close to a father as I’ve ever had. 

“I’ve wonderful news, My Precious Jewel!” he exclaims, grabbing one of my hands and clasping it in his. “We’re to put on a play! Imagine that- a play! The Moulin Rouge a theatre!”

“Oh!” I say, surprised. “Are you telling the truth? Will the Moulin Rouge put on a play?”

Ziddler beams. “Yes, darling, yes! We’re doing a bohemian number, written by some bumbling Englishman. A duke is sponsoring it! He wants to buy the place!”

My heart stops in my chest and I have to pull away my hand from his and clasp my bosom to get it going again. “A writer?”

Ziddler nods. “Yes, my dear. A writer. A bohemian writer.”

I cough. “B-bohemian?”

“Yes.” He studies me. “Are you quite alright? You’re looking rather flush.”

I am quick to give him a positive shake of the head as to avert suspicion. “Ah! Bohemian! I remember what it is now!” His eyes lighten at my excitement, and I think 100 to 1 chances that it’s him, anyhow. “I was just trying to recall what it was,” I explain, “Oh, what a wondrous production it will be, Harold!”

“You have no idea, Satine! The set will be spectacular! So spectacular the audience will stop and stare! And you’re the star! Think of the costumes, Satine! Think of the props and the scripts and… and… the money!”

I spin around, caught up in the moment, positively enthralled by the concept of being an actual actress! Can you believe that? Me the star! Me! “Oh, Harold!”

“The writer is guaranteed brilliance, too!” Ziddler says, “He stays right across the street in the little hotel.”

My heart flips. “Across the street, you say?” A nod. “I think I’ve seen him writing.”

Ziddler glances out the window. “Well, it’s quite possible, dear, for you know how those bohemians are, always typing away at any hour. Leaves no time for the outdoors. Poor boy is as pale as a sheet.”

My breath catches. I think- That’s my man. That’s my guy. That’s the man I’m in love with. 

Ziddler leans forward and squeezes my shoulders. “Anyways, I just wanted to tell you the news, Sweet Pea. I’ll let you get back to resting. A big day ahead, we have. The writer is coming tomorrow and we’re going to do the remainder of the casting.” I give him a nervous smile, reflecting that no man ever before has made me feel the way that this writer has. 

Ziddler goes to the door, in small steps, which is all his short legs will allow. As he grabs the handle, he turns and gives me a mischievous smile. “Oh, and Satine,” he says, “He’s excited to meet you. I explained you and he seemed rather turned on by the description.” He throws me a wink. “But, to be sure, you better wear that spicy red dress you pull off so well. Just in case.”

And out he goes, chortling lightly to himself. I hear every footfall as he goes down the stairs outside my Elephant, but my mind is somewhere else; somewhere across the street, through a window, by the typewriter. Even still I cannot bring myself to go back upstairs and spy on him further. This quick connection between us that Ziddler has formed has made it more complicated; no longer am I stranger in love. 

Tomorrow I will meet him in person. 

XXX

Sleep is ragged like torn satin. I awake in sweat and pain from the position I’ve been lying in. I find myself stretching my back on the edge of the bed a moment later. I feel as though I’ve been romping for hours on end, beneath the likes of a heavy, bulky man, ravishing me for pure sport. I rub my bare shoulders, delicately.

Ziddler calls on me at 8, sending one of the unpopular hookers up to my door; Linny. 

“Mr. requests ya’ in his office. The new writa’ is here ta’ see ya.” Her words are pronounced with a thick behemoth accent and the vowels come out under-stressed. Ziddler always told me I was the only woman in this place that had any class. 

I slide out of my slip while Linny speaks, and pull on a fresh one, and my red dress. She tells me that Harold is chipper this morning, but high-strung. She also comments on the incredibly firm ass of the new writer. I shoo her out at that and go to my dressing table to apply my blush and eyeliner. 

My heart beats seemingly a thousand times a minute. Just the sheer thought of him downstairs sets every part of me on fire. I feel light-headed I go down to the Moulin Rouge, and enter through the back door, where I can avoid early morning slew of men meandering in through the front, looking for a quickie before work. 

For a few minutes I stand at the office door, scared to death to step inside. Then, in a spurt of bravery, I twist the doorknob and step inside, putting on my face; the face. Seductress.

“Ah, my little Apple!” Ziddler coos, seeing me. “How wonderful you look!” I raise an eyebrow and give him a heartless sneer. 

The writer looks at me, his eyes light on my skin; they burn completely through me. I think- There he is. There he is. The sun seems to be shining directly on him. His black, sexily disheveled hair falls lightly on his forehead, over important eyebrows and a sturdy, chiseled jaw-line. And his hands, oh God, his hands, are carved granite. He wears a black, cheap looking suit, over a wrinkled white dress shirt, and faded, dull dress shoes. I want to throw him against the wall. 

Suddenly he steps forward, startling me. “My name is Christian.” Christian, my heart sings, Christian! “You look very lovely.” 

I stand straight, defiant of my attraction. “I am not lovely. Courtesans are never lovely.” Christian only gives me a gentle smile and steps back.

Ziddler claps his hands. “Ah! You two will get along just swimmingly! The star and the writer!” He punches Christian playfully in the shoulder, then steps over to me, whispering aside, “Don’t worry, sweet-pea, you won’t have to sleep with him.” 

There are three quick raps on the door then and it is thrown open to reveal a gangly thing in brown tweed, with a furry blonde moustache and boisterous, mousy hair. The gleam in his eyes is creepy, and his eyes rest instantly on my chest. 

“I am the Du-duke.” He stutters unattractively, “You must be Satine.”

I blink, lazily, and place a finger under his chin, lifting his face to my level. “I am Satine. Those are my breasts.”

He laughs nervously. “Of course. The Sparkling Diamond.” He grabs my hand, fumbling, and then places a messy kiss on my knuckles. “Diamonds are a girls’ best friend,” he says, trying to sound sexy, “But men have far more uses.” 

I wave my finger. “Ah, my dear Duke, we can’t have bedroom talk in the workplace.” 

Ziddler pats The Duke on the shoulder. “Yes. You and our ever-beautiful Satine will have to continue this upstairs. Perhaps later. Now we must talk business! Now we must discuss… The play! Christian, tell us about the play!”

Christian smiles innocently. “The play is…”

Ziddler leans forward, “Yeees?” 

“The play is about…”

The Duke looks around bored.

“The play is about a woman.” Ziddler makes a noise of appreciation. “A woman!” Christian continues. “A beautiful, beautiful woman, with,” he glances in my direction, “um, red hair.” Ziddler and The Duke look from me to Christian suspiciously. “She has red hair because… Because she’s from Ireland! Yes! And she’s an Irish princess! And she’s very beautiful!”

I look at him amazed. Speechless.

Ziddler says, “And what happens in this play about a red-headed Irish princess?”

Christian looks blank, then “She falls in love. With a…” I watch his eyes scan the room and then fall on Ziddlers anchor in the corner; Ziddler’s infamous anchor. “I fetched that right out of the dead sea!” he once said. “With a sailor!” Christian finishes. “She falls in love with a sailor and he falls in love with her!”

The Duke scoffs at Christian. “What makes you think she’d love a sailor? Princesses are smarter than that.”

Christian does not reply. He simply gives him a look. “But the princess is betrothed to a Spanish king.” The Duke scoffs again. “A pompous Spanish king.” He adds. “And if the king finds out that the princess is seeing the sailor, he will have him killed. So it’s a secret love; a secret, passionate love.” He glances at me. “And even though the sailor has nothing to offer, but his words,” he takes a breath, “she loves him unconditionally and they meet each night secretly.”

“Oooooh!” Ziddler responds. “How interesting. What do you think Duke?”

The Duke pries his eyes away from me. “Well, I think, if Satine is to play the lead, it might be a hit. Otherwise it’s garbage.”

It is then apparent from the cries of happiness from the three of us that the second comment is ignored. Ziddler dismisses Christian and I and I hurriedly run upstairs.

XXX

What can I do but stand like a statue in the middle of my room and think about him? What can I do but wonder if he’d just made his story up on the spot, and whether or not it is about me? 

I sit around all day, stretching and wondering whether or not I will have to be with The Duke. But I keep thinking about Chrisitian. Linny comes upstairs and tells me she’d gotten a part in the play. She said Ziddler’d been working all day on the parts. 

When she leaves, I take a nap, but only a quick one. When I get up, I feel rested. I sit on the bed and look out at the sky, though the windows, and am amazed to see that it’s already dark. 

There comes a rapping at the door. I jump. 

“It’s Christian,” says the caller, “May we talk a moment?”

My heart explodes into fireworks more beautiful than the setting sun. Yet, somehow I open the door and let him in. 

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” I say.

He smiles at me. “I wrote the story about you,” he states plainly. “I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

I gape at him.

“Forgive my forwardness,” he explains, “but I’m bohemian and I have basic live-by rules. And, well, we bohemians speak our minds.” He shrugs. “I think, maybe I should love you. And well, I think we should fall in love.”

I feel as though my heart has stopped beating and I am completely unable to breathe. But I regain my composure in a fraction of a second. “That’s preposterous! You can’t just walk in here saying that to a courtesan. We don’t love.”

He steps back, abashed. “Don’t love!? That’s the preposterous thing! Love is a many, splendid thing. Love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Of course,” he says, shaking his head, “I can’t pay you. But even still, I’d like to be with you. I’ve seen you, the way you move and the way you form your words is just adorable. And your eyes are like portals to another dimension…”

I roll my eyes, pretending ever-so-hard. “That’s absurd. You’re rambling! You can’t love someone from just watching them perform.” I stop. “Wait, how have you seen me?”

He looks at me blankly. “I come on the nights you perform. I stand in the back and watch you. You are very talented.”

My mouth falls open. “Wh-what? You watch me?”

He nods slowly. “Well, yes. All the time. You’re so beautiful you see, and I’ve sort of grown rather fond of you; watching you. I think, maybe we’re meant to be together. I think I love you.”

I step back. “Love me!? You don’t even know me.” I think, bitterly, Oh am I a hypocrite.

“I do know you!” Christian says. “I see you every night standing on your rooftop looking up at the stars. You look so magnificent standing there.”

I shake my head, walking toward the stairs. “I’m a courtesan, Christian, not some silly girl ready to be picked up.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Well,” I continue, “I don’t love. I make love.”

“I think you love. I think you can love.”

I start up the stairs. “Maybe you should leave,” I shout down, “you’re not making any sense and I just can’t talk to crazy people right now.”

I reach the top stair and go over to the edge, where the poles and fence make the seat atop the elephant. I wrap my hand around the familiar pole, looking over at the passionate ear. Then, suddenly, Christian is there, standing beside me. 

“I may be crazy,” he says outlandishly, “but it’s only crazy in love!” he takes a step towards me. “Let’s try it,” he suggests, “let’s try you and me.”

I shake my head, and stutter out a “N-n-no. What can you pay me?”

He’s silent. He’s dead silent and he looks past me at the sky, which is a brilliant navy blue. Then- “Me and Mrs… Jones… We got a thing, goin’ on!” 

I’m rendered speechless. He steps forward and grabs my hands.

“We both know that it’s wrong… but it’s much too strong… to let it go, now. We meet everyday, at the same café… 6:30… and no one knows she’ll be there. Holding hands… making all kinds of plans… while the jukebox plays our favorite song…” He lets go and jumps back, and heaves himself over the fence and onto the back of the Elephant. “ME AND MRS. JONES!” 

I run over, “Careful! Shh! You have to be careful!”

He turns back, grinning. “I can’t pay, I know. But I can love you.” 

I look at him, hopelessly. “Love me? No… We can’t.”

He steps forward. “Let’s try it. Let’s try it out.”

I shake my head. “No… No.” He takes another step, and then wraps a hand around the railing. I continue to shake my head, until he leans forward and stops it with his hand. 

“You have a heart,” he whispers, “all humans have hearts, you just have to believe that.” 

 

XXX


End file.
